


Enjoliver

by shellcollector



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Les Mis Rarepair Week 2017, M/M, Printshop Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/pseuds/shellcollector
Summary: Verb; from en- + Old French jolif (“pretty”) (Modern French joli) + -er; to embellish, prettify





	Enjoliver

“Well,” said Joly brightly. “Well, well, well.”

Enjolras was sitting in the corner, his hands steepled together, apparently deep in thought.

“Whenever this happens,” said Joly, “I always wish I had a book. Don’t you?”

Enjolras looked up, seemed to consider, nodded, and then looked down again.

“I mean, of course it would be confiscated - wouldn’t it? But a very small book in the pocket of a waistcoat, perhaps?”

Enjolras sighed — if he thought Joly did not notice, he was wrong — and sat up. “There would be a lump.”

“Well, but that is dependent on the binding. What if it were printed on the thinnest paper, and bound without a cover? Why, you yourself could bring out a series of flattened editions for the use of those susceptible to arrest.”

“I’m not sure —”

“Admit it, it’s a wonderful idea. You will make your fortune.”

“I already have quite enough to be getting on with, I think. But thank you.”

“Well then, we’ll make _my_ fortune, since it was my idea — even if it is your press — hmm, but I rather think I have enough as well. What say we donate the profits to Bossuet?”

“Why not Feuilly, since we’re at it?”

“I don’t think he could be persuaded to take them.”

“And Bossuet would, I suppose?”

“Well — you know —” Joly smiled with a sheepish pride. “I’m rather good at giving him things without his noticing.”

“Then I suppose we have a plan.”

Enjolras was smiling, but he bent over again and withdrew once more into vacancy. He was murmuring to himself — too faintly for Joly to hear, but a small mouse crept out from underneath the bench and sat on its hind legs, as if to listen.

Joly was not, if he was honest, altogether fond of mice.

“Are you sure you’re quite on board with the idea?” he asked. “You don’t see any flaws in it?”

“Not immediately.”

“But on closer inspection?”

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for further inspection.”

There was a silence. The mouse rubbed its paws together.

“What do you think of Combeferre’s new lady friend?” Joly asked. “Do we think she’s a lady friend or, as it were, a _lady friend_?”

Enjolras looked up, squinting. “I don’t follow?”

“Well, of course, he _says_ that they merely visit each other and exchange books, but surely there must — _well._ ”

“Oh,” said Enjolras, smiling vaguely. “That resolves a mystery. I had wondered about a new acquaintance he keeps asking me to meet. I don’t think he mentioned a sex, although perhaps I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Well! You’ll have to meet her and report back.”

Enjolras nodded.

There was another silence. Joly could feel his stomach turn. Prison did not agree with it; something about the cold stone, perhaps, creeping up through the soles of one’s shoes. He lifted his feet off the floor and attempted to cross his legs, but his trousers — newly purchased — were too tight. Instead he kept his feet hovering, a few inches in the air, while trying to work out a better position.

This was like a bloodletting, he thought to himself, not for the first time: a thing to be endured in the hope of balance. He’d bled himself enough times that he didn’t really mind it any more, especially since on each occasion the incipient fevers and agues he was attempting to forestall had failed entirely to manifest. Their current situation was different, of course; it was an attempt to cure a body already sick. That meant more desperation, but not, perhaps, less chance of success.

Still, he would have been happier without the mouse.

“Do you suppose animals have thoughts?” he asked.

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t really — that is, I don’t know.”

“Descartes held them to be pure automata, but sometimes I think I see glimpses of — well, it’s not intelligence, certainly, but some inner process. I was talking about this with Combeferre the other day, and he agrees it merits further investigating.”

Enjolras nodded, a glazed look over his face.

“But imagine — what if each animal has a mind, which is trapped inside a weak and constrained body. Certainly they seem to lack the apparatus for speech. But it might not be impossible to construct some — some way of communicating, much as one can speak to a deaf-mute using gestures.”

“This sounds,” said Enjolras, a little warily, “like something Combeferre might be be better informed about.”

“Oh yes! Certainly.” Joly rubbed his nose. “Tell me, if you had to be an animal, which would you choose?”

Enjolras blinked. “Why must I? On whose order is this?”

“I don’t know — some vengeful demigod, perhaps. Or a wizard. I always liked stories about wizards. I tried some of my own magic, sometimes, but it never took.”

“Um.”

“I don’t really know, myself. I’ve thought about it, but it’s a very difficult question. The obvious choice would be, for example, a parrot, since those are at least capable of forming words — but they don’t seem able to express their own thoughts, only mirroring those of others. Grantaire says they are cursed, like Echo.”

Enjolras’ eyes seemed to come into focus, suddenly. It was as if he pulled his spirit back into the room by effort of will. He looked straight at Joly.

“You’re very bored, aren’t you?” he said. There was a kindly tone in his melodious voice.

“Abominably.”

“And uncomfortable?”

“We-ell — rather, yes.”

“All right.” Enjolras got up and came to sit beside Joly. He put an arm around him. Joly was surprised to find that Enjolras’ flesh was actually quite soft. He had been expecting marble, he realised, and found instead something quite different. Far from being cool to the touch, he had a radiant heat that was almost febrile.

“What would you do,” said Enjolras, “if someone else were here? I don’t — I mean, I usually take this as time for reflection.”

“I’m sorry,” said Joly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’m sure you’re very cross.”

“Not at all.” Enjolras pulled away, so that their eyes could meet. He looked tremendously sincere — but then, Enjolras always looked tremendously sincere.

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Enjolras. “Now, what do the others do, to make you feel better? How do you and Bossuet pass the time, if you’re holed up in a cell together for a few hours?”

Joly felt the blush begin as a warmth in his chest, underneath the shirt. He could not see it mottling and spreading up his neck and into his face, but he could feel it, and he could picture what was happening quite distinctly, having watched it in a mirror on a few occasions. It fascinated him, but it was also rather inconvenient, especially when one didn’t exactly wish to be transparent.

“Er,” he said. “Umm.”

Enjolras tilted his head to one side quizically.

“We, er, we talk, I suppose,” said Joly, his cheeks burning.

Enjolras frowned, and seemed at the point of moving on when realisation dawned.

“Aaaah,” he said, with the smile of a man to whom everything becomes clear. “Ah.”

“I mean,” said Joly, his voice a little squeaky, “we do talk too. It’s just — one doesn’t tend to be very well watched, you see. Once they know you’re just waiting for bail, they simply — lock the door and ignore you.”

“True.” Enjolras was nodding. His nods were tremendously sincere.

“Anyway,” said Joly.

“Well,” said Enjolras, “If I’m honest I don’t care very much about wizards.” And he kissed Joly on the mouth, firmly and rather well.

It was not long before Joly had decided — as he generally did in the end — that although being arrested might be unpleasant, the unpleasantness was decidedly contingent. Under the right circumstances, it could even be rather nice.


End file.
